OLD GODS, NEW GODS, DEAD GODS, LIVING GODS…THEY GOT MY HEAD SPINNING ROUND (Segue of the Day: 10/29/16)

A couple of mind-blowers…

Marketa Lazarova (1967)
Director: František Vláčil

marketa1

Sign o’ the Times (1987)
Director: Prince

princesign1

I happened to watch these back to back this week, not entirely on purpose but not entirely by coincidence either. They’ve both been sitting on my shelf for a while, waiting for a mood and, after watching Marketa Lazarova, as grim and compelling a visual and narrative experience as the human mind can touch without suffering immolation, I thought a Prince concert film might offer a little relief.

Maybe in some other context it would. But Marketa opened up so many doors to the long view of history there was probably no way to detach it from whatever came next. I certainly couldn’t detach it from a world of Dionysian hedonism where absolutely everything–including the god-like qualities of the  writer/director/performer at the center–is taken for granted.

The Czech film (voted the nation’s greatest in 1998, and, for once, I can believe it) takes nothing for granted, maybe because the thirteenth-century world it depicts is devoid of all security, all modernity, all comfort.

Though the plot is byzantine, the underlying narrative has a fable-like simplicity–thirteenth-century Czech warlords and their attendant clans anticipating the Hatfields and McCoys by six hundred years.

I suspect only someone who had come through the immediate experience of a war-torn land (Vláčil, a Czech native, was twenty-one when WWII ended and in his early forties when Marketa was filmed, apparently under physical circumstances not far removed from those of the story he was telling), could have brought such immediacy to a pre-civilizational world. God is present, but His ways are even more mysterious than usual and He seems in no mood to perform wonders. The Church is protected by forces less abstract than the Creator, and therefore weak and morally compromised, even within the walls of the nunnery that represents its presence in both the film and the world the film brings so unerringly, unnervingly near.

I suspect that going much further–making sense of it all–would require dozens of viewings, even for someone versed in the Czech language (one commentator after another on the extras provided by Criterion’s typically excellent package insists that the novel upon which the film is based is brilliant but untranslatable). But its primal power shines through, burning like a dark light hovering over one of Marketa’s endless snow-strewn vistas. It’s as full of “unexpected” turns as The Searchers, the only American film to which it bears a passing resemblance, and similarly driven by the force of an internal logic that, in the mind of those paying close enough attention, subsumes every “but would they actually do that?” objection before it even half-forms. (That resemblance would be more than passing if Debbie Edwards’ experiences–doubtless similar to what the title character in Marketa Lazarova suffers before our eyes, right down to “bonding” with her captor/rapist–were as fully fleshed out as her uncle’s….Ethan Edwards would have been perfectly at home in the thirteenth century).

marketa2

All of this served to remind me, as I watched Prince cavort through his meticulously self-constructed Utopia, just how near the wheel is to turning, how close we are to seeing the Devil turn round no matter who we “elect” now or in the future. The skids are greased. If the present election cycle has been nothing else, it’s been a reminder that our current raison d’tre, a national mission now resisted by exactly no one, is to move Paradise from the future (where it had been so securely and imaginatively placed by the Reformations–Catholic and Protestant–that kicked off Europe’s emergence from the all-against-all darkness Marketa Lazarova so memorably depicts, and set it on the five-hundred-year winning streak which the war František Vláčil lived through put to an end) to the present.

Paradise–represented by Prince’s imagination or anyone else’s–is always supposed to be transcendent, post-civilizational, the place where there will be no more crying. In the real world all men and all nations have to pass through on the journey to Perfection, the search for it always ends by discovering new realms of suffering.

princesign2

We had best enjoy the vicarious thrills of experiences like Sign o’ the Times (staggering by the norms of ordinary concert films, and, oh by the way, a beautifully complete refutation of the searing, unsettling album with which it shares a title and much of the same music–not for nothing do we call the man from Minneapolis a genius), while we can.

We are now flying very close to the sun. The world of Marketa Lazarova–which many now living in, say, the Middle East, would recognize as a mere nod to current events–will, via Paradise, return for the rest of us soon enough.

marketa4

MY FAVORITE DOUBLE LP (Not Quite Random Favorites….In No Particular Order)

fleetwoodmac3

I’ll just take the suspense out of it this time and go ahead and admit my current favorite double LP, unlikely to be dislodged any time soon, is the one pictured above. I’ll get back around to it in a bit, but I want to preface this with a short history of the “double LP.”

It has to be a short history because truly important double LP’s in rock and roll–one artist, studio bound, more or less conceptual, on two 12″ vinyl records, making some sort of real statement that amounted to something more than simple overindulgence or hubris–weren’t all that numerous.

Though the concept had been around since the fifties, Bob Dylan started the whole thing for rockers with Blonde on Blonde in 1966. Over the next two decades or so, the meaningful history of the concept amounted to more or less the following:

Freak Out The Mothers of Invention (1966)

Electric Ladyland The Jimi Hendrix Experience. (1968)

The Beatles (aka The White Album) The Beatles (1968)

Trout Mask Replica Captain Beefheart (1969)

Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs Derek and the Dominoes (1970)

Exile on Main Street The Rolling Stones (1972)

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road Elton John (1973)

Songs in the Key of Life Stevie Wonder (1976)

Tusk Fleetwood Mac (1979)

The Wall Pink Floyd (1979)

London Calling The Clash (1979)

The River Bruce Springsteen (1980)

1999 Prince (1982)

Double Nickels on the Dime The Minutemen (1984)

Sign O’ the Times Prince (1987)

I may have left out a few, especially on the cult side, but those entries represent the basic shape of it. There were dozens of others recorded (who can forget Atomic Rooster!) but those are the highlights from the days when it still mattered–major artists, or at least major cult artists, making major statements in the studio that couldn’t reasonably fit on one LP in the pre-digital days before virtually unlimited content made the LP, let alone the double LP, an entirely amorphous concept. These days, if you want fifteen songs on your latest album, there’s usually nobody there to either stop you at twelve or make you come up with four more. Same if you want thirty-two or seven.

That said, the list above is not a half-bad overview of rock history, or at least the limits of rock ambition, from the mid-sixties to the late eighties. Before the technology altered both limitations and expectations for the form, it was almost impossible for any but the most adventurous artists to leave any kind of impact on the history of the music through the medium of the double LP. Technology giveth–the double LP couldn’t have existed without it. And technology taketh away–these days anybody can make a “statement,” so no one ever quite does.

So it goes.

My own experience with double LPs is pretty limited. I’ve listened to all the albums above at least once or twice. Of those I’ve heard only once or twice (Freak Out, Trout Mask, The Wall, Double Nickels), I can imagine some day getting closer to Double Nickels on the Dime for reasons I explained here. Of those I’ve listened to more than once or twice, I can easily imagine getting closer to Blonde on Blonde, Electric Ladyland, Songs in the Key of Life,  The River, 1999 and Sign O’ the Times, all of which I like a lot but never quite obsessed over.

Besides Tusk, that leaves:

doubalbums1 doubalbums2 doubalbums3

goodbyeyellow2

doubalbums5

These, I’ve obsessed over.

Some time or other.

Leave London Calling, however reluctantly, to youth, and the breaking of rulers (or, as I used to call them, drumsticks) over various bits of unpaid-for furniture.

Say Goodbye Yellow Brick Road really is a tad slick and, if I say that (which it maybe is, though only in comparison with what’s left standing, and really only a tad), then I have to say the same for The White Album too, even if the least of it functions perfectly as filler.

Somewhere along the way, you have to make things a little bit easy for yourself.

That leaves Layla and Exile and Tusk and having to choose–really having to choose because I chickened out on my last category and there’s no point in doing this if you aren’t going to make impossible choices.

Boy, do I feel foolish.

Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs and Exile on Main Street are not only bottomless, they come from a period I really like better than 1979. Surely it was harder to define despair at a moment when at least a modicum of hope remained? Surely it was harder to sound crapped out at the beginning of the last decade before the reactionary backlash fully set in than at the end, on the very eve of the real destruction?

Well, maybe.

One thing that doesn’t surprise me in hindsight is that neither Eric Clapton, the Stones nor Fleetwood Mac ever sounded quite up to the task again. All made fine music now and then. None ever again sounded truly epic.

And maybe the reason I give an edge to Tusk these days is that it pulls off the near impossibility of sounding quietly epic. Which, given its subject matter in common with Layla and, especially, Exile–spiritual desperation born of dissolution, unless, of course, it’s the other way around–just means it ends up, on the very closest attention, sounding ten times as vicious.

You end up sounding ten times as vicious as Exile on Main Street, you’ve got my attention.

But how else is there to hear it when you listen close?

Granting it’s all “metaphorical,” the rain outside coming down forever, the feel of 1979, transmuted through the broken relationships that had already been done to death on Rumours, one of the best and most popular albums of the decade. But so what? Pass it through ten thousand layers of studio polish and emotional murk and a knife fight still sounds like a knife fight.

And Tusk still sounds like what The White Album might have if John and Paul had gone right ahead and said what they were really thinking, instead of holding it back for their solo albums (and George, checking in from the other room, had been half the singer Christine McVie was).

For a good portion of Tusk, Lindsey Buckingham doesn’t just sound like he’s waving knives, he sounds like he’s throwing them. And Stevie Nicks sounds like she’s catching them in her teeth and spitting them out. Which leaves McVie to wipe up the blood.

Pleasant that. And never-ending. The damn thing stops and, sure enough, when you push the button–no relief breaks from getting up and turning over the record anymore…technology giveth and technology taketh away–it starts all over.

There’s Buckingham, saying stuff like “What makes you think you’re the one?” and “It’s not that funny is it?” and “That’s all for everyone,”  in the exact tone you’d expect from somebody who is banging the little woman’s head against the wall he just ripped the phone out of. Pretty soon he’s singing “Don’t blame me,” like a head case on Law and Order who makes you believe until the very last minute that he might be innocent. After that he’s singing about walking a thin line inside his own head as a lead-in to an ode to his member which, in context, begins to sound like an Appalachian murder ballad.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Before I have to put this knife in your throat.

All of which should make the myriad of devices–alternately soothing, bitter, angry, forgiving–that Nicks is using to survive sound pathetic (a “mooncalf” in Robert Christgau’s contemporary judgment). Probably she would sound pathetic, except that she’s Stevie Nicks, so even when it seems like she’s going to drift away, (“drowning in a seas of love, where everyone would love to drown”) there’s always some bit of timbre or phrasing that snaps her back. Pretty soon after you accept that she isn’t going to come undone, her compliments–“When you were good, you were very, very good”–start to sound like razor cuts, just because she’s the one singing them. “Intense silence” sounds like “Intense violence” and there’s no question who the silence and the violence are really directed at. You can fool yourself into believing she’s indulging in escapism but it would be very dangerous to turn your back.

That leaves McVie in something like the role she had on Rumours and, to a lesser extent, Fleetwood Mac–a honey-toned referee, there to cut the hard tension with a kind of melancholy that doesn’t exactly disperse the bitterness but at least makes it bearable.

Except here it’s not quite that simple. Here she sounds more like the woman across the street who can hear what’s going on at the neighbors’, who keeps a window open maybe just so she can hear, but can never quite bring herself to call the cops. Over and over she’ll never forget tonight. Something’s certainly distracting her. Maybe she’s having the best sex of her life. Maybe she’s found true love. Maybe she’s earned her peace.

Too bad the neighbors are killing each other.

It’s easy enough to hear why Tusk never reached the stratosphere commercially. It runs on sounds and attitudes more than melodies and pop song structure. It’s a mashup, coolly received in its own time (Greil Marcus was one of the very few big-time critics who lauded it–John McVie said it sounded like three solo albums mashed together and he wasn’t entirely wrong, just irrelevant), which turned out to be a time most people would like to forget.

But we still live in those times. They were just beginning when Fleetwood Mac spent endless months wringing Tusk out of the experience of their own lives and their improbably mad fortune. There’s something heroic about most of the other albums I listed above, even those which came after, when the rot was really setting in. There’s nothing heroic about Tusk. It promises no change, offers no peace, no idea that things will ever get better. Like every one of the great albums listed above it had its finger on the pulse of its own time. More than any album I know of, it also had its finger on the pulse of the future.

Too bad for us and too bad for them.

And I really wish I could stop listening.

But I can’t.

(NEXT UP: MY FAVORITE ROCK CRITIC)